Shedding
by briankilroy
Summary: After Slit survives his fiery crash on the Fury Road, he's left to grapple with many things - his fall from grace, the death of Immortan Joe, the reformation of the Citadel, and his Joe-forsaken itchy back - will someone come and help already?


Slit had been inside Razor-Cola when it disappeared between the War Rig and the People Eater's Limousine in a ball of fire. The only thing that could have been more delicious than taking down that bitch traitor Furiosa was the taste of Valhalla, and that's what he had expected. The flames licked at him, the metal bent in around him, and his body rattled around what was left of the cabin until the wreckage fell still behind the party.

When he emerged from the darkness, he saw them - _the Gates_. They were chrome like nothing else, adorned with intricate designs that Slit could not have even dreamed of carving into his own skin. There was a great amount of history welded onto the metal, of all the the wars, the raids, of all that the War Boys had achieved in their half-lives and was worthy of display. It was too detailed for it to be possible to find himself, but he didn't bother. He was _here_ \- of course he was up there.

As the scene became more vivid, the sound drifted over the walls to reach Slit. There were engines, shouts, voices beyond the massive walls. The Ace, Torque, Phil, even _Morsov_. (He'd never admit it to anyone, but Morsov went out the best way he could. Slit could have done nothing, but he didn't want to give him the moment; too many War Boys were cheering him on, not enough attention on him.)

Slit followed the asphalt path towards the entrance, still marveling at the sheer fact that he had made it to Valhalla. Each step forward produced a contact high that made him believe he could jump right over the metal. His grin grew wide enough for the staples in his cheeks to strain the skin, but it didn't matter now. Nothing could hurt him now.

He reached out for the great bar that held the Gates closed - the final obstacle in his way to his Heaven. The wrought iron felt icy in his hands, bringing him a welcome contrast to the fire that had enveloped him moments before. Slit couldn't help but savor the moment. This is what he had been waiting for since he was a pup. If he were ever to be soft, it would be right then and there. With one last breath to prepare himself for the sight ahead of him, Slit prepared to lift the bar from its slot.

As he tried to pump his arms, it wouldn't budge. His first thought was that it _had_ to be heavy - one final trial of strength to prove his worthiness. The idea was enough to light a fire in him and make him go at it with all his might. Years of exercise, work, and sparring had trained his muscles for this moment - _surely_ they would come to good use now -

But they didn't. No matter how hard he pushed, pulled, tugged, whatever he did to try to get through failed. The bar remained still. The Gates stayed closed.

Maybe it was because Slit hadn't been Witnessed. There was no one to watch as he was crushed into a heap of metal, quickly left behind on the Fury Road. No one knew it was him. Even worse, perhaps it was because he was _unworthy_. The concept of failing Immortan Joe, the man he had worshipped and looked up to for so many thousands of days, crushed him. For the first time that he could remember, he was scared.

Whichever reason it was that Slit was denied entrance, it didn't matter. The locking bar grew white-hot in his hands, forcing him to recoil. Before him, the Gates retreated and stretched towards the skies to ensure his entrance was not made. Below him, the ground gave way, and he fell back to earth.

His first instinct when he woke up was to _scream_.

The burns assaulted his senses; the smell of charred flesh, the taste of acrid black smoke, the sensation of complete physical restriction. Slit knew that anything that hadn't been covered had been fair game to the flames - his arms, his back, even up his neck and around his bad ear. Each square inch felt like the searing metal was still wrapped tight around him, boiling his blood and peeling his skin like leather. Even his eyes couldn't escape the scalding heat. The high sun's rays easily bled through his eyelids to singe the tender jelly-flesh, and his arms were in no shape to shield himself.

Slit tried to kick his legs and somehow come to a standing position, but his attempt sent another stab through his body and forced out another yelp. Something had to be torn or broken down there. There had never been any pain like this; the brand, his scars, his mouth, his stomach, all were incomparable to what seemed to encapsulate him in senseless agony.

The more he came back to a proper consciousness, the more Slit noticed the rhythmic tugging of the ground below him. Off to either side of him, there was a War Boy, each looking worse than the other. Cuts, bruises, burns of their own. They were dragging him on a tarp. It wasn't long before the movement translated into even more torture - his skin felt as though it was trying its best to slough off his muscles, stretching too far by any healthy standard.

Slit's instinct was to try to be quiet, but they had already heard the loudest he had to offer. Anything else wouldn't matter much - they knew how much it hurt, and they'd allow anything that would grant him relief if their intent was to keep him alive. Only Joe knows why they'd decide to save him. Should have let him stay in Razor-Cola to burn into ash. If he wasn't worthy in death, he wasn't worthy in life.

It wasn't as though he could stop them. His agony crippled him, forced him to tense his arms into his chest - any other movement would make it worse. Slit almost wished for them to find the nearest weapon they could and drive it right through him. Hell, he'd even offer his own wrist blade.

They didn't, though. The War Boys flanking him kept pulling for what had to be miles. With no way to resist, Slit could only lay still in the tarp with eyes tightly shut, body tempered against movement, voice betraying the torture of his burns.

It wasn't long before his mind - and therefore, the pain - began to dull. He found some sort of relief in it, but couldn't help but resurface the worry of death, and what would truly await him outside of Valhalla. The concept almost made Slit stir to refresh his suffering, but his skin was already beginning to pull taut, and his muscle was in all likelihood cooking or _cooked_. Growing numb to the pain and the world was something he had to accept for better or worse. At the very least, it would be over sooner.

The blankness that took him didn't return him to Valhalla, didn't provide him with anything meant to be meaningful. It smothered him in a loving way, almost like one of the Milking Mothers that the Citadel collected their milk from. There was an odd comfort that unconsciousness brought him, and he wouldn't deny it the effort.

There came a point that he was gently roused awake by one of them. He couldn't tell who it was, probably couldn't even offer more than a groan. As soon as he made it evident he was conscious, the War Boy put a canteen to his mouth and encouraged him to drink. "Canteens here and there are half-full. Rations are fuck-all, but we'll split what we find." As Slit drank, he could tell he was getting a look over - his eyes told it all. "Not much we can do but keep going, hope someone's up ahead." When the last of the Aqua-Cola had gone down, he took it as his personal cue to slip back into the dark.

When he next woke, it was night. The tarp had stopped moving - in fact, it had been half-draped over him. The small glances that his neck would allow him revealed the two War Boys - _no_ , there were more of them - huddling against a rock wall nearby to sleep. They must be in the canyon. Must be heading back to the Citadel. Slit couldn't blame them for leaving him alone. Any touch or movement might set him off again.

His body still throbbed as it tried to repair the damage Slit sustained on the Fury Road. It was easy to tell that some of it was irreversible - chunks of flesh had gone numb, something Organic had always hated to see. Meant nothing good. Didn't help that he was pretty sure that his skin had become stuck to the tarp, and considering the fact that he hadn't _shit_ for a while _and he couldn't tell if he had since the crash,_ it was safe to say things wouldn't be going well.

Slit could only lay stiff on the ground and simmer in the pain until he fell back to sleep. Probably wouldn't happen for a while, but it wasn't like he would need the energy. Couldn't move or do much else besides shit himself and fry or freeze, depending on the time of day. He was afraid to let his mind run loose; there were too many things to think about and focus on. Valhalla. Nux. The traitor and the Wives. The feral. The Immortan. The Citadel. Nothing he could do about any of them right now.

Still, the night kept him awake. It wasn't something that Slit could help - he wasn't in his bunk. He wasn't still in formation with the armada or even a proper scouting party. The lot of them were broken, wounded, most of them scared to shit. There was no proper defensive force. No gunners, no flamers, no grenades, no lances. Hell, if they wanted, the Rock Riders could come down from their spot above the valley and kill them all with their bare hands.

Hopefully they didn't. He had seen the losses incurred after the War Rig passed through. So many dead, so many bikes fallen (and hauled upon the collector). If they were smart, they'd stay cooped up in the cracks in the rock walls and let them be. Slit knew the War Boys weren't doing much war from here on out - the truce would be equal.

Instead of closing his eyes and trying his damnedest to sleep, he let them wonder and allowed his mind to stay active - perhaps too active. It was almost as though he _wanted_ to see something, hear something. Did it make more sense for something else to be there? Did it comfort him in some capacity? Or was he simply doing it to spite himself?

Looking in the opposite direction of the War Boys, towards the Northern side of the pass, he saw them, an interloper. They hid themselves poorly as they came down the shallow slope into the greater valley; the moonlit sky exposed their silhouette to anyone who was watching - Slit was the only one in the audience.

Their hair stood haphazardly in a mixture of loose strands and tight dreads, and what clothing they had was foreign to him - likely a lone scav. No scout for anyone else, just someone working by themselves, one against many if they were about to make it into such. While they were likely to stay quiet and go for the dead and the wreckage, a small glint of metal made him second-guess the peace he expected. He could spot a long rifle strapped to their back. As though he didn't need a queue already, Slit remained silent and still, unable to defend himself in any way.

As the scav limped further into the canyon, he could hear them - _her_. The muttering was incomprehensible, though it was likely something that Slit didn't need or want to hear. Such constant chatter to herself at such a time couldn't be a good sign; a psychotic was the last person they needed around, especially if they knew what they were doing. To watch her continue almost felt like stoking a fire, driving Aqua-Cola to boil, as though she would eventually turn and meet his gaze straight on.

She didn't, though - while she disappeared out of his field of vision, Slit could hear the scav dragging something. He had no doubt the sleeping War Boys wouldn't wake from the sound; their ears were numbed from engine bays and the constantly echoing tunnels of the Citadel. It was for him alone to witness, the movement of a body - _a War Boy!_ \- out of the valley. With no one to stop her, Slit hoped his comrade was already dead.

"Oh, Ducky, how the crawlies will _love_ you," Slit could finally pick up thanks to the adrenaline coursing through him. He was thankful that he had not been her target instead; the tarp made him perfect for transport, and only Joe would know what the scav would do. With nothing else he could do, he watched as she absconded with the corpse and disappeared back over the hills. If he strained his ears hard enough, Slit could make out the sound of a motor in the distance - he was quite thankful that it faded out instead of growing closer.

Fear was something that Slit found rather foreign to his experience as a War Boy. _Him_ , of all the half-life warriors that served under the Citadel's rule, he perhaps the bravest of them all. Slit took risks, cut corners, did everything he could to elevate his status among the others, and that steeled him against what his peers would consider a challenge. He stood guard in the dark when everyone else shuddered like pups at the thought. Him and Nux always took the lead on assaults, neither of them afraid of what they had to do or what could happen. When Slit was out here, with a crippled body and no support, with no ability to defend himself, he couldn't buy into his own hype anymore.

It became easier and easier to see how his comrades' spirits fell to the wayside to make way for their survival instincts. _Self-preservation_. It was a strength shared by the entire wasteland, but it was a weakness when it came to serving Immortan Joe. His goals were theirs, and they had to be accomplished no matter what - and by them. Being strong for the Immortan was the best thing anyone could do to guarantee entrance into Valhalla, but Slit had already fallen out of grace. If nothingness was what awaited him at the end of his half-life, then he would have to do his best to keep breathing.

Of course, when he couldn't walk, his body was seared, and his skin was melted into plastic, it would be very very difficult to manage, especially all by himself.


End file.
